The Has-Been and the Hot Mess - Isabel Jordan Page 0,10

was still her personality to consider. Kendall was smart and funny and obviously hard-working. Her tendency to blurt out what she was thinking was ridiculously adorable.

In other words, he hadn’t seen or heard a single thing from her so far that he found unattractive.

And she’d come right out and said she’d never sleep with him. Not ever.

That’d been a punch to the nuts, for sure. He understood it, though. She was a professional, and it definitely wasn’t professional to screw clients. And she was still recovering from whatever happened with her boss, so sex and romance were probably at the very bottom of her agenda.

But still…it would’ve been less of a blow to his ego if she’d at least been tempted to sleep with him.

Now he had to work with her, every day for who-the-fuck-knew-how long, and ignore how incredibly desirable she was.

He blamed Ray for this. Didn’t his brother know any old, ugly, grizzled PR managers in LA who’d be willing to help him make the career move of a lifetime? Ray just had to recommend a woman who appealed to Jackson on every conceivable level?

At this point, all he knew for sure was that there were going to be lots and lots of cold showers in his immediate future.

Chapter 7

Kendall was annoyed. Five minutes after promising that he was OK letting her into his life and letting her get to know him, Jackson sprinted out of the room like his ass was on fire, mumbling about something he had to do.

That was three hours ago. Since then, she’d updated all her social media profiles to indicate her new (un)employment status and personal status (totally single, as well as bitter and angry, thank you very much), had a way-too-long conversation with her mom, and painted her toenails black. The color matched her mood perfectly.

She’d spent some time exploring the house, too. It was nothing short of spectacular. Wide-open spaces, gleaming hardwoods, vaulted ceilings, multiple river rock fireplaces, soft, muted colors, and comfortable furnishings as far as the eye could see.

By her estimation, the place was easily seven thousand square feet, with five bedrooms, six baths, a basement recording studio, a library, and an office so lavishly appointed that Kendall could imagine a senator or billionaire CEO working in there.

But while everything in the house was obviously high-end and gorgeous, it was still comfortable. It wasn’t fussy or stuffy. You could put your feet up on the coffee table and not feel bad about it. This was a home, not a showplace you’d find in some design magazine.

Kendall loved everything about it. If she ever got the opportunity to build her dream home, it was going to be an exact replica of this place.

She’d ventured out of her room again late in the afternoon when she heard rustling in the kitchen. A personal chef—a lovely woman by the name of Florence who said she came in three times a week and cooked for Jackson (who she referred to as her “boy”)—had stopped by to whip up steaks, scalloped potatoes, and a cheesecake.

Just the thought of homemade cheesecake made Kendall drool.

Kendall had offered to help no less than twenty times, but Florence had flatly refused, insisting that she sit at Jackson’s fancy granite kitchen island and spill her life story.

Florence, who was eighty if she was a day, reminded Kendall of her grandmother (God rest her soul), which made her extra easy to talk to. It had only taken about ten minutes for Florence to get Kendall to tell her life story in a big, messy, embarrassing way.

Florence had patiently listened while she cooked and smiled encouragingly every now and then. She stopped once to pat Kendall’s shoulder, and gave her a Werther’s caramel when she’d started bawling about losing her job and her boyfriend and her townhouse on the same day.

She was really, really going to miss that townhouse.

When Kendall’s sobs had quieted to occasional despondent honks into the handkerchief Florence had given her and she was pretty sure all her makeup had melted off like that Nazi’s skin at the end of Raiders of the Lost Arc, Jackson and Ray strolled in, looking innocent, as if they hadn’t totally abandoned her.

Ray took one look at her and recoiled. “Sweet, merciful Dolly Parton! What’s wrong with your face?” Then he wailed like a little girl when Florence reached up, grabbed his ear, and dragged him down so that she could smack him on the back of the head with an